Ache
by EpicArwen
Summary: Post 4x09  Lancelot du Lac . Guinevere has 'betrayed' Arthur with Lancelot and has been banished from Camelot. This is Arthur's POV. Second of three parts.      First - Numb; Third - Echo


Rating: K+  
>Disclaimer: I don't own anything Merlin, etc.<br>Summary: Post 4x09 (Lancelot du Lac). Guinevere has 'betrayed' Arthur with Lancelot and has been banished from Camelot. This is Arthur's POV. Second of three parts.

__First part: Numb_  
><em>Second: Ache<em>  
><em>Third: Echo<em>_

* * *

><p><strong>Ache<strong>

The bright sun streams through the window.

I cringe at its warmth and cheerfulness. I groan at its inevitable message.

It is the start of a new day. Without her. I let the realization sink in.

And that's when the ache begins.

Or continues, rather. For its never really stopped. Not since I pronounced my decision and closed the door between us that night. No, it's a constant, crippling reminder that I, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, am truly and utterly alone.

Without Guinevere.

For nearly three weeks now, the routine is the same. I silently let Merlin lead me through the paces of getting dressed, eating breakfast, going over my schedule for the day. All mundane tasks that require little thought. Demand little feeling.

I move through the rest of my day in a daze. Sometimes, I find relief in the physical rigors of training with my knights. Sometimes, I am able to smile at an occasional jab or some Merlin-initiated silliness. Sometimes I even allow a sweet memory to invade me and take me over.

And for a moment, just one moment, I forget this excruciating loneliness.

The reprieve never lasts long.

And the paralyzing ache comes roaring back more fierce than before.

It has weakened me. Three times now I have summoned the head of my guards with the intent of forming a searching party to find her. Each time I have been thwarted by opposition seemingly bent on seeing my destruction complete. I am fast growing weary of my uncle's unique brand of counsel.

Merlin is worried about me and rightly so. I'm quite worried about myself. As much as he tries to be of help, he just simply cannot understand. He's never had someone possess him the way she possessed me.

For what else could it be called? My body burned at the sight of her. My heart quickened at the sound of her voice. My thoughts were full of her and her alone. My past, present and future were hers to command. Hers to embrace or destroy. That is the power she had over me.

The power she has over me still.

I've wondered many times how she managed it. Conquering me so thoroughly. So effortlessly.

Like a master strategist, she bid her time well. Outmaneuvered her every rival. Conducted surprise attacks with precision. In truth, the beauty of her strategy was that there was no strategy at all. She was just...Guinevere. Compassionate, loyal, brave. Wise, honest, good. Surprising. She never advanced her cause. She merely stood her ground and pointed me, always and forever, in the right direction. It was through her eyes that I saw the world as it could be. It was a world that together we hoped and dreamed and waited for. A world where a servant had conquered a king.

I would surrender to her now if I could. There is but one thing holding me back.

Trust.

And I _did_ trust her. Oh, how I trusted her. With everything. With my heart, my life, my kingdom. I did not trust blindly, nor did I trust in vain. She alone was worthy of her place by my side.

So, what went wrong?

Did I not say the right things? I am, after all, a man of few and often clumsy words. But she knew that. She knew me like no one ever has. Or ever will. And yet she clung to those words, hid them in her heart and parroted them back to me at the times that I needed to hear them most. No, it was not that.

Was I not affectionate enough? Did I not properly show her the depth of my love? The intensity of my desire? That cannot be it. For I saw the way she looked at me when I wordlessly pulled her into breathless kisses that, time and again, nearly spun out of control. I heard and catalogued her whimpers of surrender. I felt her body melt into mine, instinctively fueling the burn slowly building between us.

So why then turn against me the night before our wedding?

I am not the only one questioning her actions nor the timing of the betrayal.

I overheard my men talking one night. They would have been mortified had they known. They would have stumbled over themselves to apologize. There would have been no need. They did not say what I, myself, have not thought.

It didn't make sense. Any of it. On any level. Not for the woman Guinevere is and not for the year Lancelot spent amongst us.

Eating, sleeping, fighting, laughing, he lived a full life in Camelot. Had Guinevere harbored unresolved feelings, had she loved him as her actions that night indicated, she had her chance to make them known. She could have chosen him at any time. She could have used her close proximity to work out any lingering fantasies.

But she did not.

No one saw a thing. Not one single look. Not a smile or a caress, nor a word out of turn. They who know us best saw what I felt - a woman deeply, madly in love with her prince. A woman whose devotion and loyalty were as pure and undivided as her heart.

Her days were spent waiting for my pubic duties to end and our private moments to begin. Her evenings were spent by _my_ side. Not his.

It is for this reason nighttime is the worst.

As the sun begins its descent, I sit at my desk in the silence of my bedchamber and the ache attacks from all sides. It presses in on me from above, from below, from the circle of isolation all around me. It crawls inside my skin and explodes like a burst of fire from within.

Consuming me. Branding me. Turning me to ash.

And I let it.

I _crave_ it.

I cannot eat. For it is at that table that we shared our dinner and tales of the day. It is where we talked and listened, questioned and counseled. Where she teased me out of my foul moods and loved me into a happiness so complete I carried it with me day in and day out.

I cannot sleep. For it is in that bed we had planned to complete our union. To celebrate our victory against hate and ignorance. To discover each other and immerse ourselves in intimate pleasures we'd as yet only glimpsed. It was there we would create heirs that would carry our legacy of love into a future we'd conjured together in our dreams.

I cannot dream. For it is in restless slumber that her tears haunt me the most. That her heart-wrenching words play an infinite loop in my mind. _Overwhelmed. Drawn. Couldn't stop myself. I don't know why. I didn't have any doubts. Drawn. You are everything to me. Couldn't stop myself. I cannot be without you. Overwhelmed. I didn't have any doubts. I cannot be without you. I love you. I love you. I love you..._

The bright sun streams through the window.

I cringe at its warmth and cheerfulness. I groan at its inevitable message.

It is the start of a new day. Without her. I let the realization sink in.

And that's when the ache begins.

I let it.

I _crave_ it.

For if I do not ache, I do not have Guinevere.

The End


End file.
